The wind moved through the valley like a quiet thought that hadn't yet decided what it meant. It brushed over tall grass, bent the tips of wildflowers, and whispered against the uneven stones scattered along the narrow path. No one walked that path anymore, though it still remembered footsteps. Memory clung to it the way moss clung to the shaded sides of rocks—soft, persistent, unwilling to let go.
At the far end of the valley stood a house that wasn't quite abandoned. Its windows were intact, though slightly clouded with dust. The door hung straight on its hinges, not broken, not loose, just unused. Inside, everything remained where it had once been placed, as if the inhabitants had simply stepped out for a moment and never returned. A cup rested on a wooden table. A book lay open beside it, its pages frozen mid-sentence.
